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Arthur should be worried about how possessive he gets whenever someone gives his servant too much attention. Especially when it is someone from a foreign delegation.
He hates it when the nobles’ sons and little princesses that come with the peace delegations take for granted Merlin’s services. When they think that his servant is there to be ordered around by someone other than Arthur. As if they hadn’t brought an army of servants themselves, or the custom to provide the best in Camelot’s service means that Arthur has to lend them Merlin. Because, honestly, Merlin? The best of anything in Camelot, Merlin?
Merlin might be good at sassing his way through the kitchen to get Arthur’s favourite pie and even better at getting out of his duties, but that is as far as Arthur is ready to confess. The rest? Arthur wouldn’t tell anyone what Merlin was good at, even under torture. Because he would rather die than spill a secret that would put Merlin in danger. Or under more scrutiny.
With two full cups of wine warming his stomach, while observing Merlin giggling with Gwen in the corner of the banquet hall, his brain reminds him of those things Merlin is very good at and those he is not.
Because Merlin is not as good as Gwen in keeping his head down and his eyes low, in dodging improper touches from people who think they can own it all—and don’t they know that Merlin is Arthur’s?
Jealousy is a hot red ball that presses tight in Arthur’s chest and that is very difficult to swallow, no matter how hard he tries. And although Arthur knows the feeling swells with wine instead of shrinking, he takes small but constant sips as his eyes follow predatorily every single one of his servant’s movements.
“It seems like Sir Frieg is nearly as drunk as you are,” Morgana snorts by his side. “Keeps calling poor Merlin for more wine.”
“I’ve noticed,” Arthur mutters through tightly clenched teeth, wondering if he could already excuse himself from this torture of a banquet.
“Hey, boy!” Sir Frieg keeps on calling Merlin with his finger for more wine, catches Merlin by his waist and pulls him closer, moving him roughly and making him nearly spill the wine.
Merlin only laughs as if it is a joke and moves away, but Arthur fists his hand underneath the table, where Uther can’t see it, and imagines punching Sir Frieg’s straight nose until it is straight no more.
The red ugly ball in his chest burns like hot coals, preventing Arthur from breathing properly. Arthur clenches his fingers around the goblet so hard it hurts.
Merlin is his boy and only his to touch. He should be serving Arthur and the guests at the high table and not the stupid visiting knights just because Uther wants them to feel important before losing tomorrow under Arthur’s blade in the tournament.
Arthur frowns. Sir Freig might suffer an accidental nick. Nobody will blame Arthur if his sword catches at the wrong angle, right?
As if she can read how dangerously close to murder his mind is wandering, Morgana kicks him underneath the table.
“You look at him any harder, he dies on the spot,” she whispers, angrily.
Arthur wants to mutter something along the lines of ‘he’s touching something that’s mine’, but although Morgana knows the kind of relationship that joins him to Merlin, Arthur knows Uther would hear it despite currently talking animatedly with their noble guests.
“This wine is more potent than I thought,” Arthur grins sheepishly, then turns to his left. “Don’t you agree, Father?”
“You have a tournament to win tomorrow,” Uther reminds him with a serious set of his lips.
“You’re right, of course.” Arthur lowers his eyes, faking guilt and seeing his freedom. “I think I shall retire to rest now.”
He only needs a look for Merlin to be by his side instantly. Arthur bows to the king and bids good night to their guests. He hopes the nasty look he dedicates to Sir Freig goes unnoticed.
The way to his room is quick and silent. The corridors are empty because most people are attending the banquet. Just as well. Arthur plans to make Merlin scream so loud the guards might be scared for his servant’s safety. Speaking of which…
“Spell the door,” he orders as soon as they close it behind themselves.
Merlin looks at him with a hint of unease in his blue eyes but murmurs a soft spell. Arthur still doesn’t know all of them, so he has to specify. “A silent one.”
“And a protection one,” Merlin adds. “Just in case.”
Arthur breathes deeply, trying to focus, the image of Sir Freig touching Merlin still in his retina. He unlaces his tunic while Merlin strokes the simmering fire with a golden look.
His conscious mind reminds him that Merlin only does magic freely with him—nobody, ever, gets to see this side of Merlin. But the jealousy he has felt at the banquet hall is still burning in his chest and he feels sweaty and hot.
“Arthur?” Merlin is almost in front of him. Worried blue eyes looking for something in his own. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Arthur confesses in a murmur.
“What can I do to help?”
Merlin’s steps closer have no hesitation. He doesn’t ask what happened for Arthur to feel like that—it doesn’t matter because Merlin knows of the extreme education that Arthur has to overcome to confess that he needs.
The way his hands grasp Arthur’s and take them away from the undone laces of his tunic speaks about how far Merlin is ready to go for Arthur. He grabs Merlin’s neck with strong fingers and licks his lips, shivering at the emotion of knowing he has such power.
“Undress,” Arthur orders. “Sit on the desk.”
Now Merlin hesitates. It’s minimal but Arthur knows everything about his body and realises it. He tightens the grip on Merlin’s neck.
“Arthur—”
“I want you, Merlin,” he says, leaning in and resting his mouth on Merlin’s. “I need to reclaim what’s mine.”
They kiss, all tongues and spit. Between them, Merlin moves his hands quickly to unlace his trousers, bumping them against Arthur’s body. Arthur groans as desire surges up his spine at the knowledge of being obeyed so readily.
He sucks Merlin’s plump lower lip between his teeth until Merlin whines. The sound makes lust roar in Arthur’s ears, and the prince moves his mouth along Merlin’s jaw. He presses Merlin closer by his neck, letting his stubble rasp the pale, tender skin and feeling the jealousy roll happily in his stomach at the hiss Merlin emits.
Arthur’s free hand finds its way underneath Merlin’s tunic, caressing his back before moving down to possessively squeeze the finally naked globes of his meaty arse.
He kisses Merlin’s cheeks before finding his lips again and discovers that Merlin is flushed red from arousal. Arthur kisses as he walks Merlin backwards towards the desk, only separating their mouths enough to tug the tunic from Merlin’s head.
“You’re going to rip it, clotpole,” Merlin protests without strength.
“Shut up.”
He pushes Merlin up against the desk and with a swift move rids him of his boots and trousers. It is extremely satisfying to get between Merlin’s legs fully dressed and make his sensitive skin react at being caressed with fine fabric.
Arthur’s eyes zero in on Merlin’s thick, dripping, hard cock and presses himself onto it. His fingers wrap strongly around Merlin’s hips, nails digging and marking until Merlin gasps.
Arthur leans in and bites Merlin on the neck and sucks, pleased with the way Merlin’s blood surges up and his pale skin bruises.
He should be worried about how much he enjoys it, and how easy it is to succumb to this possessive feeling. Sometimes he fears becoming blinded by it, going too far and truly hurting Merlin. But then Merlin submits, leaning his head to the side and giving him more room, more of his pale neck to mark, and Arthur laps his Adam’s apple and Merlin moves on the desk, desperate for friction.
“Arthur,” Merlin moans, needily.
“Oil,” Arthur orders, while he gets rid of his shirt and lowers his trousers to his ankles.
He loves watching Merlin’s eyes shine golden, the vibrant sparks that appear when he is too desperate to form the words of a spell. The vial is by their side instantly.
While Arthur slicks his fingers and enters him with one, he moves down Merlin’s chest to provide him with more marks of ownership. He bites down viciously on the hardened nub of his dark nipple.
“God, Arthur!” Merlin cries out. He quickly grabs Arthur’s hair and pulls to call his attention. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I hate that they touch you,” Arthur grunts and shakes his head to dislodge Merlin’s fingers. He goes down to suck another mark on Merlin’s shoulder, adding another finger to steadily open Merlin for him. “I hate that they think they can do whatever they wish with you.”
“Arthur, I’m a servant—”
“You’re my servant!” Arthur shouts, the fingers becoming three. He delights in the pleasurable cry Merlin emits when he touches that spot that makes him contract around him.
Arthur leaves Merlin empty. The groan of protest is silenced with an open-mouthed filthy kiss while Arthur oils his painfully hard prick.
“You’re going to bear my marks,” Arthur snarls, entering Merlin in one long push, “so that everybody knows you’re owned.”
“But—” Merlin tries to breathe through the obvious sting. Arthur doesn’t allow him time to accommodate, moving slowly but steadily.
He looks for a signal that Merlin wants him to stop that never comes. His thrusts become longer and deeper. Merlin groans and, since he can’t move in the position Arthur has him, opens his legs and rests his feet on Arthur’s hips, following his movement.
Arthur resumes his biting and admires how many marks in the shape of his mouth Merlin bears.
“I forbid you to wear your neckerchiefs until the delegation leaves. Do we understand each other?” Arthur pushes greedily into Merlin, and his servant’s body clenches around him.
“But, Arthur…”
“I said, do we understand each other?” Arthur knows Merlin is thinking about Uther, who doesn’t know the kind of relationship they have. But his father will be too preoccupied with Arthur not killing Sir Frieg in the tournament, and that would be for the better.
“Yes, Sire,” Merlin moans.
“Good boy.”
The words taste like the sweetest honey in his soul and like the sweat behind Merlin’s ear. They have the feeling of triumph in the shudder of pleasure Merlin can’t avoid when Arthur changes the angle of his thrusts, putting his hands on the table for leverage, and pistons his cock inside Merlin in a way that has his servant clinging to his shoulders for dear life.
“Fuck, Arthur!” Merlin shouts. “Please.”
The last of his jealousy forces Arthur to suck a mark as high on Merlin’s neck as possible, somewhere where, even if he were forced to use a neckerchief by the king himself, it would not be covered. He bites Merlin and wraps warm fingers around Merlin’s hard dick, which had been denied for so long that he chokes back a sob.
Arthur kisses Merlin through their climax, but this kiss is different. While Merlin shakes in his arms with the strength of his aftershocks, Arthur spends as deeply as he can knowing that even though nobody can see this mark, it is the only one that matters.
Breathless, they stay like this for a moment longer—sticky, joined, touching, feeling each other’s heartbeats returning to normal.
“You’re a silly jealous bastard,” Merlin whispers in his ear. There is not as much heat as his words presume.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, resting his forehead over Merlin’s.
“You’re so lucky that I like it rough,” Merlin smirks. “And that I enjoy being marked.”
“What have I done to deserve you?”
“I ask myself the same daily.” Merlin laughs.
Arthur kisses Merlin gently, meaning the words that it is still too soon to be said, but that are every time closer to the point of his tongue—and he guesses in Merlin’s as well. It is a battle of wills who will let the ‘I love you’ spill sooner. This kiss is the exact opposite of how this started. Their tongues meet and curl around each other, lips closing and sliding sensually against each other. Merlin presses Arthur closer with his arms and his feet, and Arthur’s cock tries to stand up to the challenge valiantly, but all his energy is gone along with his ugly feelings.
“Let’s get to bed,” Arthur says. “I have an important day tomorrow.”
With a quick spell, Merlin cleans them. Arthur finishes undressing and watches Merlin prepare the bed. He is still naked and the bruises are dark and a startling contrast against his pale skin. He seems oblivious to them, or the arousing effect it has on Arthur.
Merlin sits on the bed and looks at Arthur, a sensual smile on his handsome face. Arthur takes a step closer.
“You like it, don’t you?” Merlin says aloud. “Mark me and then look at your handiwork.”
“Yes,” Arthur breathes out.
“Come here,” Merlin grins mysteriously. “Or do you think I am the only one who's going to bear marks?”
Arthur smiles and gets into the bed. He knows he can win tomorrow’s tournament with his eyes closed and little sleep. And he is also sure Merlin’s marks won’t be a problem. And besides, he has always wanted to wear Merlin’s token.
THE END.